The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series
Page 64
“They call them the Andomren. In our tongue it means the Abandoned,” Forstren said. “They’re Dracodar descendants, like our dregs. And like the dregs, they’re mostly scorned and aren’t allowed a place among normal folk. They believe the Gods forsook them, hence the name.”
“What purpose do they serve? Do they fight? Can they fight? If they’re anything like our dregs, then some must be strong in soul.”
“Supposedly those are killed outright, unless they possess the rare cycle that makes them worthy of sacrifice to the Pillars of Dissolution.”
“What a waste.” He had far better ways to put them to use.
Forstren shrugged. “As for fighting … remember the Chosen Campaign?” Ainslen nodded. “Well, one of their tasks in life is to continually clear those fields of all the dead and prepare it for the next skirmish. It’s seen as their penance for some ancient crime against their Gods. During war, that job remains the same: the reclamation of the dead.”
If not for his beliefs, Ainslen might have smirked at the practice. But he knew the strength of religion. It was the driving force behind this invasion, and the foundation upon which the Kasinian Empire was built.
Forstren continued. “Our spies among the Caradorii Jehazite priests say the Abandoned also have one more important task. They are renowned for their skill as armor and weaponsmiths. They supply most of the kingdoms. Supposedly their skill is so great that during the Chosen Campaigns the armor and weapons of the dead are left where they fall for the Abandoned to do with them as they see fit.”
“Interesting. Well, let’s assume at least some of them can fight, or that some of the ones strong in soul are kept alive in secret to be used in battle. It’s what I would do. This way the possibility is covered.”
Ainslen’s attention diverted to the collection of large, circular tents in the center of the enemy camp. More banners flapped in the air there than at any other place. High King Taakertere’s personal insignia was larger than the others. It displayed a set of pillars with horizontal lightning streaking between them set against a black background.
Soulguards, the westerners’ elite warriors, formed a square around the tents. Sun-light glinted off their silver armor, full helms, rectangular shields, and the long lances planted in the ground before each man. They were more like statues than living beings.
High Jehazite priests and priestesses in sand-colored garb, the majority of them brown-skinned Caradorii, were entering the High King’s tent. Ainslen would have paid good coin for them do his bidding. The war would come to a swift end then. Ainslen shook his head. Might as well wish for the Gods to walk among men.
“Any chance the main Farlander force will make it here in time if this High King refuses your demands?” Lestin asked.
“The last contact said they were weeks away.” Ainslen again wondered after Seligula’s delay. “Should things fall apart we will hold until they arrive. Not that I think we couldn’t defeat these savages by ourselves, but why spill more of the Empire’s blood when we have others who would suffice?”
Lestin nodded his agreement. “All that’s left is this, then. Are you certain you couldn’t use more of an escort than three Blades and a wiseman? Perhaps Blazers to watch your back?” With his head, he indicated the battlements where the Farlanders were stationed.
“The Blazers are under strict orders to do nothing. The firesticks must remain a secret. I shouldn’t need to stress their importance to you.”
“Still, a dozen or so more Blades won’t hurt.”
“No, I want the westerners to see I have no fear of them, that despite their advantage in numbers, we’re not intimidated. Or to think I’m an arrogant fool. I want them to relax, to underestimate me.”
“There’s lack of fear, and there’s bleedin’ foolishness. Sometimes, one’s as bad as the other.” Lestin looked over, gaze unflinching. “If it were up to me the entire army would be goin’ with you.”
The Commander General’s insolence brought quick intakes of breath from Kulabi and Forstren. Ainslen offered the little sallow man a wry smile. “We can count ourselves lucky it isn’t up to you then.” He met the man’s gaze with one of steel and ice. “Don’t forget your place. I’ve killed men for less of an insult.”
“Not an insult when it’s the bleedin’ truth, sire.” Lestin shrugged. “With all respect, someone’s got to be willin’ to tell you how it is. Someone who doesn’t care about betterin’ his position by plantin’ a kiss firmly on your ass. Last I checked, sittin’ a throne is beyond the dead. We lose you out there, and this war’s all but finished.”
“From all accounts, it’s the same way for them.” Ainslen kept his anger in check. Great kings listened to reason even if presented in an unruly manner.
“That’s assumin’ your information is reliable and they send this High King of theirs. Other than the few Caradorii allowed here before this all happened, and those taken in by the Order, what do we know of the west? Can any of us point out the bleedin’ High King by sight? Can any of them do the same for you?”
“So I should send someone to pretend to be me?”
“At least consider it.”
“I did. I need to be there, close up, to observe this man’s intentions, to judge him. If he tries to deceive me then I know where we stand.”
“Might be too late if it comes to that. Which leaves the matter of you returnin’ alive should things go bad. I understand you don’t want to frighten them and all, start the bloodshed before you’re ready, but still.” Lestin shook his head and sighed. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.”
“Neither does my wife.”
“Smart woman, she is.”
“Indeed,” Ainslen said. With a shake of his head, he gave in. “Sabella?”
“Yes, sire?”
“Two more Blades are all I’ll allow.” He faced Lestin. “Satisfied?” As Lestin opened his mouth, the king continued, “And no one else is to leave the safety of these walls. No one. I’ll personally take the head of any who disobeys, and that of their family members. Is that clear?”
Scowling, Lestin nodded. “Like the sky.”
Ainslen arched a brow. The man was harder to please than the queen.
Lestin smoothed his face and bowed. “Yes, sire, I’ll pass along your order.” He strode into the guard tower.
The king watched the man leave. Although the Commander General’s attitude grated on him at times, he wished for more men like him, men who thought of the Empire above all else. Sighing, he made his way down to his mount. The grind of metal on metal came as several men cranked handles on each side of the giant, black, steel gates. The wind howled through the narrow opening. When the Curate who would act as translator and the two additional Blades arrived, Ainslen jerked his reins and rode toward the slit.
It was time to meet the enemy.
A T attered S oul
A top Danalyn’s great bulwark, Terestere closed her eyes and inhaled, savoring the feel of the cool gust against her face and its fresh, crisp scent. The wind swirled, howled, and whipped her cloak, and she embraced it. How long now before it carried death’s reek? Before blood and guts, the odious fumes of ruin, and the roar of battle consumed all else? Soon. Perhaps, too soon.
The Longing tugged at her, a pull that had come and gone over millennia, one she had learned to ignore, had shoved aside in pursuit of her goals. Of late it had become near irresistible. She wondered after the homesickness for a place she’d never truly called home. Opening her eyes, she sought out the pull with the deftness of a marksman’s arrow. West. Far west. To the edges of the world in a land she’d fled to bring life to her people.
Thoughts of the Fringes and the Tomb of Shattered Souls made her take in the black-robed Abandoned camped to the rear of the western forces. Row upon row of them stood in silence. Watching. Waiting.
The tug swelled, threatened to overwhelm her. Gritting her teeth, she buried it deep inside, but it was still there, a throb to match her heart.
No one had ever returned from the Longing. But none had resisted it as long as she. I’ll also be the first to achieve the former. A few more months. That’s all I need. A few more months.
Below her, King Ainslen left the safety of the castle. Five Blades and one wiseman accompanied him, horses cantering across the field of long grass toward its churned counterpart and the ranks of western soldiers in gleaming armor. Fluttering on the breeze were the flags of the enemy’s five kingdoms: Berendal, Aladel, Nausir, Tesadon, and Carador, their vast numbers a mockery of the single pennant carried by a Blade. That lone pennant bore the Hand of Soul, the scaled fingers and pale blue depiction of soul magic a constant reminder of Ainslen’s goals.
She detested her failure to convince him to wait for reinforcements, but when a person was thoroughly convinced of a thing, when they were steeped in a particular belief, there was almost no moving them without force. And the required force was best applied subtly. In his case, altering such an ingrained will with the necessary strength would upset the delicate balance she’d built. For most others, no such mindbends were needed. They were already hers from birth, her influence bred into them. Shaking her head, she hoped the impending news from the Stonelords would change his mind.
“Elder Forstren, have the Order’s Mesmers been dispatched?” She glanced over to the round-bellied wiseman.
“Yes, my queen. Half to the south, and the rest among the Swords as you ordered.”
“Excellent.”
Although the tardiness of the Empire’s additional forces disturbed her, of more concern was the location of Warmaster Seligula. Her subtle prods revealed Ainslen knew little of the man’s whereabouts. Seligula should have arrived at least a week past. She’d set things in motion that required his presence. Without him, the final bit of her plans might be in jeopardy. According to the Farlanders she’d questioned, he alone knew the location of Vasys Balbas, the man she loathed above all others. Balbas had some nerve, naming himself after one of Humel’s Swords. She shook her head. If Cortens Kasandar and the Order had been the door to her people’s demise, Balbas was the key that unlocked it. With Balbas’ death she would be finally complete.
To compound matters was the message she’d deciphered by way of her Dragon Gates board. All was not going well among the tribes. Resistance to the idea of integrating her people with the humans had grown to dangerous levels in her prolonged absence. Compounding the problem was an increase in Dracodarkind who could touch the quintessence , regardless of their scales or purity. In turn, loss to the Longing had grown more common. She hoped the letter was wrong about the dissent, but either way she needed to see for herself. And to deal with the issue should it prove true.
Nothing could stand in the way of her plans for Mareshna, for the Dracodar return to prominence. She’d spun delicate webs for countless years, changing entire lineages and peoples. Her efforts would not be wasted; her goals were so close she could taste them.
Sighing, she refocused on her husband and offered up a prayer to the Dominion for his safe return. If he died now it would make the task ahead that much harder. And rob her of the vengeance she so deserved. There were things yet left to instill into his mind for when that day came, keys he’d hidden deep inside himself that he no longer remembered. Neither could she allow him to kill Taakertere and gain control of the western nobility.
A part of her did want Ainslen to die out there in the field. The Dominion knew he deserved no less. But the other part of her, the bit with an eye toward the future, would not be satisfied by it. Her hands had to take his life. He had to relive his horror. Nothing else would suffice. She could feel her fingers tighten around his throat.
Too many Dracodar had fallen to him, with Delisar the latest victim. What had gone wrong in Delisar’s captivity? He should’ve been able to impart the precise amount of his soul for Ainslen to become strong enough for the final task. Somehow, the king had taken more. A lot more. Killing one of her favorite mates in the process. She sighed, and added Delisar’s name to the extensive list of those killed in the Red Swamps. And to the even longer list of dead sons, daughters, consorts, and other family dating back to the Blight, the Thousand Year War, and the Culling.
She recalled those events as if they happened yesterday. No one had any answers when the Blight befell her people. Mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters all fell victim, poisoned by Cortens Kasandar with the weapon Vasys Balbas provided him. Once shiny scales had become grey and diseased. Countless died, and those strong enough to survive had found that they could no longer reproduce. Their race was doomed.
Their last emperor, Ilsindin, made a desperate effort to save those not tainted, to keep them separated. Some of his men became overzealous, killing humans and Dracodar alike, uncertain who to blame for the spread of the plague. Those acts sparked the Thousand Year War, which saw them decimated in battle after battle against humans inferior in melding but who had the advantage of numbers. Their great empire dwindled to a mere sliver of barren land surrounded by an unforgiving ocean. The humans ravaged their once great cities. When Ilsindin fell to Cortens Kasandar, the Culling began, and thus ended the Dracodar dynasty.
Memories of the Culling threatened to overwhelm her. Helpless, she’d watched families torn apart, her people depleted to feed the needs of the soul-crazed nobility, herded into pens like animals. She’d spent centuries within the stockades as a slave or worse, a witness to torture, rapes, and murders. Until her father had found the courage to flee after the nobles took her mother.
Scowling, she slammed her mind shut against the pain of memory. She let out a slow breath. The reward for all the work done over the centuries, the meticulous plotting and reviving of the Dracodar line from almost nothing, was at hand. Today, it began with a metal bolt longer than a man; a javelin tipped with kerin would help put an end to the Berendali High King and thwart Ainslen’s plan. The blame would fall on a skittish soldier. It was perfect.
“Keep those javelins trained on the enemy,” she said to Porsen, the ballista commander, a tall Kasinian with sandy hair.
Porsen signaled to the operators at the weapons arrayed along the wide walkway. There were two score of the ballistae, appearances like oversized crossbows, the javelins like bristling spines.
From the enemy’s ranks rode seven warriors atop yuros, the shorthaired animals eating up the distance in great strides, legs and lower body sullied by mud, muscled necks and broad snouts pointed forward like hounds at hunt. Six warriors carried the lances and shields favored by Berendali Soulguards. The empty-handed one wore silver armor filigreed with gold in a design she often saw in her nightmares. He would be High King Taakertere Hemindel, his progenitors responsible for her father’s death, and he, himself, the driving force behind the continued Dracodar persecution in the west.
She couldn’t help her smile. It was one thing to discover her mindbend of Aidah Rostlin had been a success, and completely another to see the fruit of such labor in all its glory. She basked in pride as she recalled the Crystal Skies, which had turned two of her greatest enemies against each other, men whose goals would have aligned if not for her interference over the years, goals that would have robbed her people of their sliver of life.
She studied them for a bit, frowning. Something was off. She was uncertain what it was, but something about the westerners nagged at her.
“The one in the pretty armor dies first.” She waited as Porsen relayed her orders. “Looking glass.” She held out her hand, wishing she could meld instead.
A retainer delivered the instrument. She brushed aside a stray lock of hair and put the metal tube to her eye. The distant men leaped into her vision. Squinting, she focused on the High King. Ainslen rode up and blocked her view.
“Perfect.” She shook her head in exasperation. Annoyed, she shifted to the Soulguards. Full helms hid their features. They held their lances with the butts down. A deceiving gesture. Each weapon was a manifestation and could whip in any direction quick as thought.
The wiseman.
A cold dread knotted her stomach. Her thoughts came in a frantic rush.
On initial meetings the High King did not address strangers himself. He kept a Jehazite priest for such tasks. And the priests would refuse to don a warrior’s garb. It was blasphemy. Even if the customs had changed, her questioning of the pilgrimage’s lone survivor made her certain of one thing: the High King didn’t speak Kasinian. And Ainslen knew nothing of Berendali.
King Ainslen shifted a bit and she got a view of his opposite sitting astride the yuro. A wisp of brown hair peeked beneath the curve of the High King’s helm. It should have been fair. His eyes were blue instead of amber.
“Fire,” she shouted, voice shrill. “Fire!”
Out in the field the world turned a brilliant shade of reddish-orange. A whoosh followed. The explosion threw Ainslen from his horse, the animal now missing its legs. She snatched the looking glass from her eye, blinking away the attack’s blinding effect.
Springs released all around her, metallic echoes of extreme pressure given freedom. Javelins hummed through the air. The crank and clank of reloading began immediately after.
Dots dancing in her vision, she looked out toward the field. Flames engulfed the area where Ainslen had stood. Jutting from the ground was a broken pennant bearing the tattered remains of the Hand of Soul. She counted four bodies, too burned to identify. Smoke and fire swept across the ground, hiding anyone else.
A Soulguard leaped through the wall of flames. The first javelin took him in the chest and flung him from his yuro. Two more suffered a similar fate. The others danced between the bolts, knocking aside the attacks with their shields.